Chapter 19 Adela
I wake up at six in the morning with my face pressed against my laptop keyboard.
The screen has gone dark; the battery is dead from being open all night. My neck aches from the angle I've been sleeping at, and when I sit up, the legal pad covered in my handwriting falls from my lap to the floor.
I don't remember falling asleep.
One moment, I was researching private medical facilities in Washington, trying to match the partial name I saw at the hospital — Evergreen Private Medical something — and the next moment, sunlight was filtering through my window, and my phone was buzzing on the desk beside me.
Three missed calls.
Two from my mother. One from Judge Ravenshaw.
I stare at his name on the screen, my thumb hovering over the voicemail notification. He's been avoiding me — blocked my calls, refused to answer questions about Cody's transfer. And now suddenly he's reaching out?
I don't listen to the message.
Instead, I plug in my laptop and stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and staring at my reflection. The girl looking back at me has dark circles under her eyes, tangled hair, and the kind of exhausted expression that comes from not sleeping properly for days.
But she's not crying.
It’s weird how the tables have turned.
I get dressed and grab my bag for class. Life keeps moving, even when it feels like the ground is constantly shifting beneath my feet.
Political Theory is a mistake.
I realize this the moment I walk into the lecture hall and feel the energy shift. People glance at me, then quickly look away. Whispers start the second I pass.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just the kind of low murmur that makes the back of my neck prickle with awareness.
I slide into a seat near the back and pull out my notebook, trying to ignore it.
But I hear fragments anyway.
"...judge's son..."
"...hooking up..."
"...hockey player..."
My pen stills against the page.
Someone leaked something. Rumors spread faster than facts, especially on a college campus. Or maybe they finally know about Cody, and it’s circulating that his girlfriend transferred here. I guess it is suspicious that I’m here.
But to my luck, nobody says anything to my face. Nobody asks if I'm okay, if the rumors are true, or if I knew what Cody was doing.
They whisper and stare and pretend they're not doing either.
The professor starts the lecture, something about democratic institutions and checks on power, but I can't focus. Can't stop feeling the weight of eyes on me, the shift in how people perceive me.
I'm no longer just Adela. I'm no longer just the mayor's daughter or the transfer student.
Now I'm the girl whose boyfriend is a monster.
That identity settles over me like a second skin I never asked for.
When class ends, I'm the first one out the door.
I'm halfway across campus when my phone rings again.
Judge Ravenshaw.
I stop walking, students flowing around me like water around a stone. My finger hovers over the decline button.
Then I answer.
"Hello?"
"Adela." His voice is warm, measured, the kind of tone that's been perfected through the years. "I'm so glad you picked up. I've been trying to reach you."
"You blocked my number," I say flatly.
A pause. "Why on earth would I do that? These last few days have been… difficult, and I’ve been trying to reach you."
I don't respond. Just wait.
"I wanted to explain about Cody's transfer," he continues. "I know you must have questions, and you deserve answers."
"Where is he?"
"He's at a private medical facility. Very discreet, very secure. The media was starting to circle, Adela. Reporters were asking questions, digging into his personal life. I couldn't let that happen — not just for his sake, but for yours."
I frown, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "For mine?"
"Your name was starting to come up. Association by proximity. I didn't want you dragged into the scandal." His voice softens. "You're the mayor's daughter. You have a future ahead of you. This kind of publicity could destroy that."
The words sound reasonable. Protective, even. A father trying to shield not just his son but his son's girlfriend from the fallout.
But something about it sits wrong.
"Okay," I say quietly.
Another pause, longer this time.
"Cody cared about you very much. The least I could do was make sure this situation didn't ruin your life, too."
Cared. Past tense.
Like Cody is already gone.
"I have to go," I say, not wanting to hear any of this right now. "I have class."
"Of course. Adela — if you need anything, please don't hesitate to call. You're not alone in this."
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, trying to process the conversation.
He framed everything as protection. As care. As doing what's best for me.
But I never asked to be protected. Never asked to be moved off the board like a piece in a game I don't understand the rules to.
And that realization that I'm not in control of my own narrative anymore unsettles me more than anything else.
I text Beckett from the library, sitting in a corner booth with my laptop open but not actually working on anything.
Can you come over later?
The response comes within minutes.
Yeah. What time?
7?
I'll be there.
Simple. No questions. No hesitation.
I set my phone down and stare at the blank document on my screen, trying to focus on the essay I'm supposed to be writing for Political Theory. But the words won't come.
All I can think about is the way people looked at me in class. The whispers. The judgment.
The way my identity is splintering into something I don't recognize.
When Beckett arrives at seven, I'm sitting on my bed instead of at my desk.
No legal pad. No timeline. No research spread across every surface. This time, I won’t ask him silly questions he doesn’t know the answer to.
Just me, cross-legged on the mattress, wearing sweatpants and one of Cody's old hoodies that I should probably never wear again, but can’t seem to throw out.
Beckett notices the difference immediately. I see it in the way his eyes scan the room, taking in the closed laptop, the cleared desk, the absence of frantic investigation.
"Hey," he says, closing the door behind him.
"Hey." I pat the space beside me.
He hesitates for just a second, like he's calculating whether this is safe territory, and then lowers himself onto the bed next to me. Closer than we've sat before. Close enough that I can smell whatever soap he uses and see the bruises on his face.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then I ask the question I've been holding back since I met him.
"Why do you hate Cody?"
His eyes cut to mine, sharp and assessing. "What makes you think I hate him?"
"The way you talk about him. The way you don't talk about him." I pull my knees up to my chest. "You said he was entitled. That he takes what he wants. That's not how you describe someone you're friends with."
Beckett is quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he's choosing his words carefully.
"We weren't friends," he says finally. "We were teammates. There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"Friends trust each other. Teammates just…play the same game. Share the same ice." He looks at me. "Cody didn't care about anyone but himself. He used people. Manipulated them. Made them think they mattered when they didn't."
The words land heavily between us.
"Did he do that to you?" I ask quietly.
"Not to me specifically. But I watched him do it to others." His expression hardens. "And yeah, that made me decide not to be his friend."
I absorb this, turning it over in my mind. Everything Beckett is saying aligns with what I've learned. With the videos. With the lies. With the monster Cody actually was beneath the facade.
"I don't know who I am without him," I admit.
Beckett turns to face me fully. "What do you mean?"
"I mean––" I press my palms against my eyes, trying to organize the chaos in my head. "I've been Cody's girlfriend for so long that I don't remember who I was before him. What I wanted. What I liked. It all got wrapped up in him, in us, in the future we were supposed to have."
I drop my hands and look at Beckett. "And now that's gone, and I don't know what's left."
He doesn't try to fix it. Doesn't offer platitudes about finding myself or moving forward or any of the bullshit people say when they don't know what else to offer.
Instead, he says something that cuts straight through.
"You're not who he made you."
The simplicity of it, the certainty, makes something in my chest loosen.
"How do you know?"
"Because the person he would have made wouldn't be sitting here trying to figure out the truth. She'd be accepting the story everyone's feeding her and moving on." He shifts slightly closer. "You're not doing that. You're fighting. That's all you."
I lean into him without really deciding to. Just let my head rest against his shoulder, seeking the kind of contact that doesn't demand anything but presence.
He freezes for half a second. I feel the tension in his body, the momentary uncertainty. Then he relaxes, his arm coming around my shoulders carefully.
We sit like that for several minutes, neither of us speaking.
Finally, I say, "I watched them over and over."
"Watched what?"
"The videos. They made me, and it keeps replaying in my head. I’m trying to find something I missed. Some sign that I should have known."
Beckett pulls back enough to look at me.
"Stop hurting yourself," he says.
It's not a suggestion. It's a command delivered with enough care that it doesn't feel controlling. Just protective.
I look up at him, at the fading bruises, at the blue eyes that have been steady through all of this, at the person who showed up when I called, even though he barely knows me.
And I realize I want something from him that has nothing to do with Cody, investigations, or the chaos consuming my life.
I want something steady.
I lean in, testing what he’ll do. He watches me, so I test further and press my lips against his.
I’m kissing him.
He kisses me back — careful, controlled, like he's afraid of breaking something fragile.
It deepens. My hand finds the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. His hand cups the back of my neck, thumb stroking along my jaw.
For a moment, everything else falls away. There's just the warmth, the contact, the simplicity of wanting someone and being wanted back.
Then he pulls away.
Not abruptly. But definitively.
"Not like this," he says, his voice rough.
I blink at him, confused. "What?"
"I don't want to be your rebound." He's still close enough that I can feel his breath. "I don’t want to be the thing you use to survive him. Even for a second."
The words hit harder than any rejection I've ever experienced.
Because he's not saying no.
He's saying not yet.
He's saying when this happens, I want it to mean something.
I look at him and understand what he's offering me. Respect. Patience. The space to figure out who I am outside of Cody before I dive into something new.
"You're not," I say quietly.
His eyes search mine. "Not what?"
"A rebound." I hold his gaze, letting him see the truth in it. "You're not a replacement or a distraction. You're..."
I don't have the words yet. I don't know how to articulate what he's become in the span of a few days.
But for the first time since this nightmare started, I mean what I'm saying.
He matters. Not because of what he can do for me or how he makes me forget.
But because of who he is when everything else falls away.
Beckett's thumb traces along my cheekbone, and something in his expression softens.
"Okay," he says finally.
For the first time since Cody collapsed, I feel like I’m choosing something instead of reacting to it.